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Best Famous Attending Poems

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Written by G K Chesterton | Create an image from this poem

The Song of Education

 III. For the Creche 

Form 8277059, Sub-Section K 

I remember my mother, the day that we met, 
A thing I shall never entirely forget; 
And I toy with the fancy that, young as I am, 
I should know her again if we met in a tram. 
But mother is happy in turning a crank 
That increases the balance in somebody's bank; 
And I feel satisfaction that mother is free 
From the sinister task of attending to me. 

They have brightened our room, that is spacious and cool, 
With diagrams used in the Idiot School, 
And Books for the Blind that will teach us to see; 
But mother is happy, for mother is free. 
For mother is dancing up forty-eight floors, 
For love of the Leeds International Stores, 
And the flame of that faith might perhaps have grown cold, 
With the care of a baby of seven weeks old. 

For mother is happy in greasing a wheel 
For somebody else, who is cornering Steel; 
And though our one meeting was not very long, 
She took the occasion to sing me this song: 
"O, hush thee, my baby, the time will soon come 
When thy sleep will be broken with hooting and hum; 
There are handles want turning and turning all day, 
And knobs to be pressed in the usual way; 

O, hush thee, my baby, take rest while I croon, 
For Progress comes early, and Freedom too soon."


Written by John Ashbery | Create an image from this poem

My Philosophy of Life

 Just when I thought there wasn't room enough
for another thought in my head, I had this great idea--
call it a philosophy of life, if you will.Briefly,
it involved living the way philosophers live,
according to a set of principles. OK, but which ones?

That was the hardest part, I admit, but I had a
kind of dark foreknowledge of what it would be like.
Everything, from eating watermelon or going to the bathroom
or just standing on a subway platform, lost in thought
for a few minutes, or worrying about rain forests,
would be affected, or more precisely, inflected
by my new attitude.I wouldn't be preachy,
or worry about children and old people, except
in the general way prescribed by our clockwork universe.
Instead I'd sort of let things be what they are
while injecting them with the serum of the new moral climate
I thought I'd stumbled into, as a stranger
accidentally presses against a panel and a bookcase slides back,
revealing a winding staircase with greenish light
somewhere down below, and he automatically steps inside
and the bookcase slides shut, as is customary on such occasions.
At once a fragrance overwhelms him--not saffron, not lavender,
but something in between.He thinks of cushions, like the one
his uncle's Boston bull terrier used to lie on watching him
quizzically, pointed ear-tips folded over. And then the great rush 
is on.Not a single idea emerges from it.It's enough
to disgust you with thought.But then you remember something
William James
wrote in some book of his you never read--it was fine, it had the
fineness,
the powder of life dusted over it, by chance, of course, yet
still looking
for evidence of fingerprints. Someone had handled it
even before he formulated it, though the thought was his and
his alone.

It's fine, in summer, to visit the seashore.
There are lots of little trips to be made.
A grove of fledgling aspens welcomes the traveler.Nearby
are the public toilets where weary pilgrims have carved
their names and addresses, and perhaps messages as well,
messages to the world, as they sat
and thought about what they'd do after using the toilet
and washing their hands at the sink, prior to stepping out
into the open again.Had they been coaxed in by principles,
and were their words philosophy, of however crude a sort?
I confess I can move no farther along this train of thought--
something's blocking it.Something I'm 
not big enough to see over.Or maybe I'm frankly scared.
What was the matter with how I acted before?
But maybe I can come up with a compromise--I'll let
things be what they are, sort of.In the autumn I'll put up jellies
and preserves, against the winter cold and futility,
and that will be a human thing, and intelligent as well.
I won't be embarrassed by my friends' dumb remarks,
or even my own, though admittedly that's the hardest part,
as when you are in a crowded theater and something you say
riles the spectator in front of you, who doesn't even like the idea
of two people near him talking together. Well he's 
got to be flushed out so the hunters can have a crack at him--
this thing works both ways, you know. You can't always
be worrying about others and keeping track of yourself
at the same time.That would be abusive, and about as much fun
as attending the wedding of two people you don't know.
Still, there's a lot of fun to be had in the gaps between ideas.
That's what they're made for!Now I want you to go out there
and enjoy yourself, and yes, enjoy your philosophy of life, too.
They don't come along every day. Look out!There's a big one...
Written by Marianne Moore | Create an image from this poem

To a Steam Roller

 The illustration
is nothing to you without the application.
You lack half wit. You crush all the particles down
into close conformity, and then walk back and forth on them. 

Sparkling chips of rock
are crushed down to the level of the parent block.
Were not 'impersonal judment in aesthetic
matters, a metaphysical impossibility,' you 

might fairly achieve
it. As for butterflies, I can hardly conceive
of one's attending upon you, but to question
the congruence of the complement is vain, if it exists.
Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

Idyll

 A village Chorus is supposed to be assembled, and about to
commence its festive procession.

[Written for the birthday of the Duchess Louisa of Weimar.]

CHORUS.

THE festal day hail ye

With garlands of pleasure,

And dances' soft measure,
With rapture commingled
And sweet choral song.

DAMON.

Oh, how I yearn from out the crowd to flee!
What joy a secret glade would give to me!
Amid the throng, the turmoil here,
Confined the plain, the breezes e'en appear.

CHORUS.

Now order it truly,
That ev'ry one duly
May roam and may wander,
Now here, and now yonder,

The meadows along.

[The Chorus retreats gradually, and the song becomes fainter and
fainter, till it dies away in the distance.]

DAMON.

In vain ye call, in vain would lure me on;
True my heart speaks,--but with itself alone.

And if I may view

 A blessing-fraught land,

The heaven's clear blue,

And the plain's verdant hue,

Alone I'll rejoice,

Undisturbed by man's voice.


And there I'll pay homage

 To womanly merit,

 Observe it in spirit,

In spirit pay homage;

To echo alone

Shall my secret be known.


CHORUS.

[Faintly mingling with Damon's song in the distance.]

To echo--alone--

Shall my secret--be known.--

MENALCAS.

My friend, why meet I here with thee?

Thou hast'nest not to join the festal throng?
No longer stay, but come with me,

And mingle in the dance and song.

DAMON.

Thou'rt welcome, friend! but suffer me to roam

Where these old beeches hide me from man's view:
Love seeks in solitude a home,

And homage may retreat there too.

MENALCAS.

Thou seekest here a spurious fame,

And hast a mind to-day to grieve me.
Love as thy portion thou mayst claim

But homage thou must share with all, believe me!

When their voices thousands raise,
And the dawn of morning praise,

 Rapture bringing,

 Blithely singing

 On before us,
Heart and ear in pleasure vie;


 And when thousands join in chorus,

With the feelings brightly glowing,

And the wishes overflowing,
Forcibly they'll bear thee high.

[The Chorus gradually approaches, from the distance.]

DAMON.

Distant strains are hither wending,

And I'm gladden'd by the throng;
Yes, they're coming,--yes, descending

To the valley from the height,

MENALCAS.

Let us haste, our footsteps blending

With the rhythm of the song!
Yes, they come; their course they're bending

Tow'rd the wood's green sward so bright.

CHORUS.
[Gradually becoming louder.]

Yes, we hither come, attending

With the harmony of song,
As the hours their race are ending

On this day of blest delight.

ALL.

Let none reveal
The thoughts we feel,
The aims we own!
Let joy alone

Disclose the story!
She'll prove it right
And her delight

Includes the glory,
Includes the bliss
Of days like this!

 1813.
Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

Fit the Fifth ( Hunting of the Snark )

 The Beaver's Lesson 

They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; 
They pursued it with forks and hope; 
They threatened its life with a railway-share; 
They charmed it with smiles and soap. 

Then the Butcher contrived an ingenious plan 
For making a separate sally; 
And fixed on a spot unfrequented by man, 
A dismal and desolate valley. 


But the very same plan to the Beaver occurred: 
It had chosen the very same place: 
Yet neither betrayed, by a sign or a word, 
The disgust that appeared in his face. 

Each thought he was thinking of nothing but "Snark" 
And the glorious work of the day; 
And each tried to pretend that he did not remark 
That the other was going that way. 

But the valley grew narrow and narrower still, 
And the evening got darker and colder, 
Till (merely from nervousness, not from goodwill) 
They marched along shoulder to shoulder. 

Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky, 
And they knew that some danger was near: 
The Beaver turned pale to the tip of its tail, 
And even the Butcher felt *****. 

He thought of his childhood, left far far behind-- 
That blissful and innocent state-- 
The sound so exactly recalled to his mind 
A pencil that squeaks on a slate! 


"'Tis the voice of the Jubjub!" he suddenly cried. 
(This man, that they used to call "Dunce.") 
"As the Bellman would tell you," he added with pride, 
"I have uttered that sentiment once. 

"'Tis the note of the Jubjub! Keep count, I entreat; 
You will find I have told it you twice. 
'Tis the song of the Jubjub! The proof is complete, 
If only I've stated it thrice." 

The Beaver had counted with scrupulous care, 
Attending to every word: 
But it fairly lost heart, and outgrabe in despair, 
When the third repetition occurred. 

It felt that, in spite of all possible pains, 
It had somehow contrived to lose count, 
And the only thing now was to rack its poor brains 
By reckoning up the amount. 

"Two added to one--if that could but be done," 
It said, "with one's fingers and thumbs!" 
Recollecting with tears how, in earlier years, 
It had taken no pains with its sums. 

"The thing can be done," said the Butcher, "I think. 
The thing must be done, I am sure. 
The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink, 
The best there is time to procure." 

The Beaver brought paper,portfolio, pens, 
And ink in unfailing supplies: 
While strange creepy creatures came out of their dens, 
And watched them with wondering eyes. 

So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not, 
As he wrote with a pen in each hand, 
And explained all the while in a popular style 
Which the Beaver could well understand. 

"Taking Three as the subject to reason about-- 
A convenient number to state-- 
We add Seven, and Ten, and then multiply out 
By One Thousand diminished by Eight. 


"The result we proceed to divide, as you see, 
By Nine Hundred and Ninety Two: 
Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be 
Exactly and perfectly true. 

"The method employed I would gladly explain, 
While I have it so clear in my head, 
If I had but the time and you had but the brain-- 
But much yet remains to be said. 

"In one moment I've seen what has hitherto been 
Enveloped in absolute mystery, 
And without extra charge I will give you at large 
A Lesson in Natural History." 

In his genial way he proceeded to say 
(Forgetting all laws of propriety, 
And that giving instruction, without introduction, 
Would have caused quite a thrill in Society), 

"As to temper the Jubjub's a desperate bird, 
Since it lives in perpetual passion: 
Its taste in costume is entirely absurd-- 
It is ages ahead of the fashion: 

"But it knows any friend it has met once before: 
It never will look at a bride: 
And in charity-meetings it stands at the door, 
And collects--though it does not subscribe. 

" Its flavor when cooked is more exquisite far 
Than mutton, or oysters, or eggs: 
(Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar, 
And some, in mahogany kegs) 

"You boil it in sawdust: you salt it in glue: 
You condense it with locusts and tape: 
Still keeping one principal object in view-- 
To preserve its symmetrical shape." 

The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day, 
But he felt that the lesson must end, 
And he wept with delight in attempting to say 
He considered the Beaver his friend. 

While the Beaver confessed, with affectionate looks 
More eloquent even than tears, 
It had learned in ten minutes far more than all books 
Would have taught it in seventy years. 

They returned hand-in-hand, and the Bellman, unmanned 
(For a moment) with noble emotion, 
Said "This amply repays all the wearisome days 
We have spent on the billowy ocean!" 

Such friends, as the Beaver and Butcher became, 
Have seldom if ever been known; 
In winter or summer, 'twas always the same-- 
You could never meet either alone. 

And when quarrels arose--as one frequently finds 
Quarrels will, spite of every endeavor-- 
The song of the Jubjub recurred to their minds, 
And cemented their friendship for ever!


Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

The Unforgiven

 When he, who is the unforgiven, 
Beheld her first, he found her fair: 
No promise ever dreamt in heaven 
Could have lured him anywhere 
That would have nbeen away from there; 
And all his wits had lightly striven, 
Foiled with her voice, and eyes, and hair.

There's nothing in the saints and sages 
To meet the shafts her glances had, 
Or such as hers have had for ages 
To blind a man till he be glad, 
And humble him till he be mad. 
The story would have many pages, 
And would be neither good nor bad.

And, having followed, you would find him 
Where properly the play begins; 
But look for no red light behind him-- 
No fumes of many-colored sins, 
Fanned high by screaming violins. 
God knows what good it was to blind him 
Or whether man or woman wins.

And by the same eternal token, 
Who knows just how it will all end?-- 
This drama of hard words unspoken, 
This fireside farce without a friend 
Or enemy to comprehend 
What augurs when two lives are broken, 
And fear finds nothing left to mend.

He stares in vain for what awaits him, 
And sees in Love a coin to toss; 
He smiles, and her cold hush berates him 
Beneath his hard half of the cross; 
They wonder why it ever was; 
And she, the unforgiving, hates him 
More for her lack than for her loss.

He feeds with pride his indecision, 
And shrinks from what wil not occur, 
Bequeathing with infirm derision 
His ashes to the days that were, 
Before she made him prisoner; 
And labors to retrieve the vision 
That he must once have had of her.

He waits, and there awaits an ending, 
And he knows neither what nor when; 
But no magicians are attending 
To make him see as he saw then, 
And he will never find again 
The face that once had been the rending 
Of all his purpose among men.

He blames her not, nor does he chide her, 
And she has nothing new to say; 
If he was Bluebeard he could hide her, 
But that's not written in the play, 
And there will be no change to-day; 
Although, to the serene outsider, 
There still would seem to be a way.
Written by Walter de la Mare | Create an image from this poem

Alone

 Over the fence, the dead settle in
for a journey. Nine o'clock.
You are alone for the first time
today. Boys asleep. Husband out.

A beer bottle sweats in your hand,
and sea lavender clogs the air
with perfume. Think of yourself.
Your arms rest with nothing to do

after weeks spent attending to others.
Your thoughts turn to whether
butter will last the week, how much
longer the car can run on its partial tank of gas.
Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

Original Preface

 I feel no small reluctance in venturing to give to the public a 
work of the character of that indicated by the title-page to the 
present volume; for, difficult as it must always be to render satisfactorily 
into one's own tongue the writings of the bards of other lands, 
the responsibility assumed by the translator is immeasurably increased 
when he attempts to transfer the thoughts of those great men, who 
have lived for all the world and for all ages, from the language 
in which they were originally clothed, to one to which they may 
as yet have been strangers. Preeminently is this the case with Goethe, 
the most masterly of all the master minds of modern times, whose 
name is already inscribed on the tablets of immortality, and whose 
fame already extends over the earth, although as yet only in its 
infancy. Scarcely have two decades passed away since he ceased to 
dwell among men, yet he now stands before us, not as a mere individual, 
like those whom the world is wont to call great, but as a type, 
as an emblem--the recognised emblem and representative of the human 
mind in its present stage of culture and advancement.

Among the infinitely varied effusions of Goethe's pen, perhaps 
there are none which are of as general interest as his Poems, which 
breathe the very spirit of Nature, and embody the real music of 
the feelings. In Germany, they are universally known, and are considered 
as the most delightful of his works. Yet in this country, this kindred 
country, sprung from the same stem, and so strongly resembling her 
sister in so many points, they are nearly unknown. Almost the only 
poetical work of the greatest Poet that the world has seen for ages, 
that is really and generally read in England, is Faust, the translations 
of which are almost endless; while no single person has as yet appeared 
to attempt to give, in an English dress, in any collective or systematic 
manner, those smaller productions of the genius of Goethe which 
it is the object of the present volume to lay before the reader, 
whose indulgence is requested for its many imperfections. In addition 
to the beauty of the language in which the Poet has given utterance 
to his thoughts, there is a depth of meaning in those thoughts which 
is not easily discoverable at first sight, and the translator incurs 
great risk of overlooking it, and of giving a prosaic effect to 
that which in the original contains the very essence of poetry. 
It is probably this difficulty that has deterred others from undertaking 
the task I have set myself, and in which I do not pretend to do 
more than attempt to give an idea of the minstrelsy of one so unrivalled, 
by as truthful an interpretation of it as lies in my power.

The principles which have guided me on the present occasion are 
the same as those followed in the translation of Schiller's complete 
Poems that was published by me in 1851, namely, as literal a rendering 
of the original as is consistent with good English, and also a very 
strict adherence to the metre of the original. Although translators 
usually allow themselves great license in both these points, it 
appears to me that by so doing they of necessity destroy the very 
soul of the work they profess to translate. In fact, it is not a 
translation, but a paraphrase that they give. It may perhaps be 
thought that the present translations go almost to the other extreme, 
and that a rendering of metre, line for line, and word for word, 
makes it impossible to preserve the poetry of the original both 
in substance and in sound. But experience has convinced me that 
it is not so, and that great fidelity is even the most essential 
element of success, whether in translating poetry or prose. It was 
therefore very satisfactory to me to find that the principle laid 
down by me to myself in translating Schiller met with the very general, 
if not universal, approval of the reader. At the same time, I have 
endeavoured to profit in the case of this, the younger born of the 
two attempts made by me to transplant the muse of Germany to the 
shores of Britain, by the criticisms, whether friendly or hostile, 
that have been evoked or provoked by the appearance of its elder 
brother.

As already mentioned, the latter contained the whole of the Poems 
of Schiller. It is impossible, in anything like the same compass, 
to give all the writings of Goethe comprised under the general title 
of Gedichte, or poems. They contain between 30,000 and 40,000 verses, 
exclusive of his plays. and similar works. Very many of these would 
be absolutely without interest to the English reader,--such as those 
having only a local application, those addressed to individuals, 
and so on. Others again, from their extreme length, could only be 
published in separate volumes. But the impossibility of giving all 
need form no obstacle to giving as much as possible; and it so happens 
that the real interest of Goethe's Poems centres in those classes 
of them which are not too diffuse to run any risk when translated 
of offending the reader by their too great number. Those by far 
the more generally admired are the Songs and Ballads, which are 
about 150 in number, and the whole of which are contained in this 
volume (with the exception of one or two of the former, which have 
been, on consideration, left out by me owing to their trifling and 
uninteresting nature). The same may be said of the Odes, Sonnets, 
Miscellaneous Poems, &c.

In addition to those portions of Goethe's poetical works which 
are given in this complete form, specimens of the different other 
classes of them, such as the Epigrams, Elegies, &c., are added, 
as well as a collection of the various Songs found in his Plays, 
making a total number of about 400 Poems, embraced in the present 
volume.

A sketch of the life of Goethe is prefixed, in order that the 
reader may have before him both the Poet himself and the Poet's 
offspring, and that he may see that the two are but one--that Goethe 
lives in his works, that his works lived in him.

The dates of the different Poems are appended throughout, that 
of the first publication being given, when that of the composition 
is unknown. The order of arrangement adopted is that of the authorized 
German editions. As Goethe would never arrange them himself in the 
chronological order of their composition, it has become impossible 
to do so, now that he is dead. The plan adopted in the present volume 
would therefore seem to be the best, as it facilitates reference 
to the original. The circumstances attending or giving rise to the 
production of any of the Poems will be found specified in those 
cases in which they have been ascertained by me.

Having said thus much by way of explanation, I now leave the book 
to speak for itself, and to testify to its own character. Whether 
viewed with a charitable eye by the kindly reader, who will make 
due allowance for the difficulties attending its execution, or received 
by the critic, who will judge of it only by its own merits, with 
the unfriendly welcome which it very probably deserves, I trust 
that I shall at least be pardoned for making an attempt, a failure 
in which does not necessarily imply disgrace, and which, by leading 
the way, may perhaps become the means of inducing some abler and 
more worthy (but not more earnest) labourer to enter upon the same 
field, the riches of which will remain unaltered and undiminished 
in value, even although they may be for the moment tarnished by 
the hands of the less skilful workman who first endeavours to transplant 
them to a foreign soil.
Written by John Milton | Create an image from this poem

Hymn on the Morning of Christs Nativity

 IT was the Winter wilde, 
While the Heav'n-born-childe, 
 All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; 
Nature in aw to him 
Had doff't her gawdy trim, 
 With her great Master so to sympathize: 
It was no season then for her 
To wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour. 

Only with speeches fair 
She woo's the gentle Air 
 To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow, 
And on her naked shame, 
Pollute with sinfull blame, 
 The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw, 
Confounded, that her Makers eyes 
Should look so neer upon her foul deformities. 

But he her fears to cease, 
Sent down the meek-eyd Peace, 
 She crown'd with Olive green, came softly sliding 
Down through the turning sphear 
His ready Harbinger, 
 With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing, 
And waving wide her mirtle wand, 
She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land. 

No War, or Battails sound 
Was heard the World around, 
 The idle spear and shield were high up hung; 
The hooked Chariot stood 
Unstain'd with hostile blood, 
 The Trumpet spake not to the armed throng, 
And Kings sate still with awfull eye, 
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. 

But peacefull was the night 
Wherin the Prince of light 
 His raign of peace upon the earth began: 
The Windes with wonder whist, 
Smoothly the waters kist, 
 Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean, 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmeed wave. 

The Stars with deep amaze 
Stand fixt in stedfast gaze, 
 Bending one way their pretious influence, 
And will not take their flight, 
For all the morning light, 
 Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; 
But in their glimmering Orbs did glow, 
Untill their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. 

And though the shady gloom 
Had given day her room, 
 The Sun himself with-held his wonted speed, 
And hid his head for shame, 
As his inferiour flame, 
 The new enlightn'd world no more should need; 
He saw a greater Sun appear 
Then his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear. 

The Shepherds on the Lawn, 
Or ere the point of dawn, 
 Sate simply chatting in a rustick row; 
Full little thought they than, 
That the mighty Pan 
 Was kindly com to live with them below; 
Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep, 
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep. 

When such musick sweet 
Their hearts and ears did greet, 
 As never was by mortall finger strook, 
Divinely-warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise, 
 As all their souls in blisfull rapture took 
The Air such pleasure loth to lose, 
With thousand echo's still prolongs each heav'nly close. 

Nature that heard such sound 
Beneath the hollow round 
 Of Cynthia's seat, the Airy region thrilling, 
Now was almost won 
To think her part was don, 
 And that her raign had here its last fulfilling; 
She knew such harmony alone 
Could hold all Heav'n and Earth in happier union. 

At last surrounds their sight 
A Globe of circular light, 
 That with long beams the shame-fac't night array'd, 
The helmed Cherubim 
And sworded Seraphim, 
 Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displaid, 
Harping in loud and solemn quire, 
With unexpressive notes to Heav'ns new-born Heir. 

Such musick (as 'tis said) 
Before was never made, 
 But when of old the sons of morning sung, 
While the Creator Great 
His constellations set, 
 And the well-ballanc't world on hinges hung, 
And cast the dark foundations deep, 
And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep. 

Ring out ye Crystall sphears, 
Once bless our human ears, 
 (If ye have power to touch our senses so) 
And let your silver chime 
Move in melodious time; 
 And let the Base of Heav'ns deep Organ blow 
And with your ninefold harmony 
Make up full consort to th'Angelike symphony. 

For if such holy Song 
Enwrap our fancy long, 
 Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, 
And speckl'd vanity 
Will sicken soon and die, 
 And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould, 
And Hell it self will pass away, 
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 

Yea Truth, and Justice then 
Will down return to men, 
 Th'enameld Arras of the Rain-bow wearing, 
And Mercy set between, 
Thron'd in Celestiall sheen, 
 With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing, 
And Heav'n as at som festivall, 
Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall. 

But wisest Fate sayes no, 
This must not yet be so, 
 The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy, 
That on the bitter cross 
Must redeem our loss; 
 So both himself and us to glorifie: 
Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep, 
The wakefull trump of doom must thunder through the deep, 

With such a horrid clang 
As on mount Sinai rang 
 While the red fire, and smouldring clouds out brake: 
The aged Earth agast 
With terrour of that blast, 
 Shall from the surface to the center shake; 
When at the worlds last session, 
The dreadfull Judge in middle Air shall spread his throne. 

And then at last our bliss 
Full and perfect is, 
 But now begins; for from this happy day 
Th'old Dragon under ground 
In straiter limits bound, 
 Not half so far casts his usurped sway, 
And wrath to see his Kingdom fail, 
Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail. 

The Oracles are dumm, 
No voice or hideous humm 
 Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. 
Apollo from his shrine 
Can no more divine, 
 With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. 
No nightly trance, or breathed spell, 
Inspire's the pale-ey'd Priest from the prophetic cell. 

The lonely mountains o're, 
And the resounding shore, 
 A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; 
From haunted spring, and dale 
Edg'd with poplar pale, 
 The parting Genius is with sighing sent, 
With flowre-inwov'n tresses torn 
The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. 

In consecrated Earth, 
And on the holy Hearth, 
 The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint, 
In Urns, and Altars round, 
A drear, and dying sound 
 Affrights the Flamins at their service quaint; 
And the chill Marble seems to sweat, 
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat 

Peor, and Baalim, 
Forsake their Temples dim, 
 With that twise-batter'd god of Palestine, 
And mooned Ashtaroth, 
Heav'ns Queen and Mother both, 
 Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine, 
The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, 
In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz mourn. 

And sullen Moloch fled, 
Hath left in shadows dred, 
 His burning Idol all of blackest hue, 
In vain with Cymbals ring, 
They call the grisly king, 
 In dismall dance about the furnace blue; 
The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
Isis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast. 

Nor is Osiris seen 
In Memphian Grove, or Green, 
 Trampling the unshowr'd Grasse with lowings loud: 
Nor can he be at rest 
Within his sacred chest, 
 Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud, 
In vain with Timbrel'd Anthems dark 
The sable-stoled Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark. 

He feels from Juda's Land 
The dredded Infants hand, 
 The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; 
Nor all the gods beside, 
Longer dare abide, 
 Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: 
Our Babe to shew his Godhead true, 
Can in his swadling bands controul the damned crew. 

So when the Sun in bed, 
Curtain'd with cloudy red, 
 Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave, 
The flocking shadows pale, 
Troop to th'infernall jail, 
 Each fetter'd Ghost slips to his severall grave, 
And the yellow-skirted Fayes, 
Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moon-lov'd maze. 

But see the Virgin blest, 
Hath laid her Babe to rest. 
 Time is our tedious Song should here have ending, 
Heav'ns youngest teemed Star, 
Hath fixt her polisht Car, 
 Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending: 
And all about the Courtly Stable, 
Bright-harnest Angels sit in order serviceable.
Written by Friedrich von Schiller | Create an image from this poem

Cassandra

 Mirth the halls of Troy was filling,
Ere its lofty ramparts fell;
From the golden lute so thrilling
Hymns of joy were heard to swell.
From the sad and tearful slaughter
All had laid their arms aside,
For Pelides Priam's daughter
Claimed then as his own fair bride.

Laurel branches with them bearing,
Troop on troop in bright array
To the temples were repairing,
Owning Thymbrius' sovereign sway.
Through the streets, with frantic measure,
Danced the bacchanal mad round,
And, amid the radiant pleasure,
Only one sad breast was found.

Joyless in the midst of gladness,
None to heed her, none to love,
Roamed Cassandra, plunged in sadness,
To Apollo's laurel grove.
To its dark and deep recesses
Swift the sorrowing priestess hied,
And from off her flowing tresses
Tore the sacred band, and cried:

"All around with joy is beaming,
Ev'ry heart is happy now,
And my sire is fondly dreaming,
Wreathed with flowers my sister's brow
I alone am doomed to wailing,
That sweet vision flies from me;
In my mind, these walls assailing,
Fierce destruction I can see."

"Though a torch I see all-glowing,
Yet 'tis not in Hymen's hand;
Smoke across the skies is blowing,
Yet 'tis from no votive brand.
Yonder see I feasts entrancing,
But in my prophetic soul,
Hear I now the God advancing,
Who will steep in tears the bowl!"

"And they blame my lamentation,
And they laugh my grief to scorn;
To the haunts of desolation
I must bear my woes forlorn.
All who happy are, now shun me,
And my tears with laughter see;
Heavy lies thy hand upon me,
Cruel Pythian deity!"

"Thy divine decrees foretelling,
Wherefore hast thou thrown me here,
Where the ever-blind are dwelling,
With a mind, alas, too clear?
Wherefore hast thou power thus given,
What must needs occur to know?
Wrought must be the will of Heaven--
Onward come the hour of woe!"

"When impending fate strikes terror,
Why remove the covering?
Life we have alone in error,
Knowledge with it death must bring.
Take away this prescience tearful,
Take this sight of woe from me;
Of thy truths, alas! how fearful
'Tis the mouthpiece frail to be!"

"Veil my mind once more in slumbers
Let me heedlessly rejoice;
Never have I sung glad numbers
Since I've been thy chosen voice.
Knowledge of the future giving,
Thou hast stolen the present day,
Stolen the moment's joyous living,--
Take thy false gift, then, away!"

"Ne'er with bridal train around me,
Have I wreathed my radiant brow,
Since to serve thy fane I bound me--
Bound me with a solemn vow.
Evermore in grief I languish--
All my youth in tears was spent;
And with thoughts of bitter anguish
My too-feeling heart is rent."

"Joyously my friends are playing,
All around are blest and glad,
In the paths of pleasure straying,--
My poor heart alone is sad.
Spring in vain unfolds each treasure,
Filling all the earth with bliss;
Who in life can e'er take pleasure,
When is seen its dark abyss?"

"With her heart in vision burning,
Truly blest is Polyxene,
As a bride to clasp him yearning.
Him, the noblest, best Hellene!
And her breast with rapture swelling,
All its bliss can scarcely know;
E'en the Gods in heavenly dwelling
Envying not, when dreaming so."

"He to whom my heart is plighted
Stood before my ravished eye,
And his look, by passion lighted,
Toward me turned imploringly.
With the loved one, oh, how gladly
Homeward would I take my flight
But a Stygian shadow sadly
Steps between us every night."

"Cruel Proserpine is sending
All her spectres pale to me;
Ever on my steps attending
Those dread shadowy forms I see.
Though I seek, in mirth and laughter
Refuge from that ghastly train,
Still I see them hastening after,--
Ne'er shall I know joy again."

"And I see the death-steel glancing,
And the eye of murder glare;
On, with hasty strides advancing,
Terror haunts me everywhere.
Vain I seek alleviation;--
Knowing, seeing, suffering all,
I must wait the consummation,
In a foreign land must fall."

While her solemn words are ringing,
Hark! a dull and wailing tone
From the temple's gate upspringing,--
Dead lies Thetis' mighty son!
Eris shakes her snake-locks hated,
Swiftly flies each deity,
And o'er Ilion's walls ill-fated
Thunder-clouds loom heavily!

Book: Reflection on the Important Things